Because I'd Die For You
by TheDoctorsCompanion13
Summary: Taking place after the season one finale, what will Sherlock choose to do and how will he cope when John is seriously injured?   Sherlock/John
1. Chapter 1

Because I'd Die For You

Sherlock looked to John for reassurance that he was doing the right thing. He needed to know that it was okay because he, himself, was unsure. He knew that the bomb was the logical choice. It would end Moriarty and the death that followed him like a dark, wispy shroud. The blast might take him too if he couldn't think of a way out in time, but that was fine. He just didn't know if he could do that to John, he didn't know if he could bare the thought, so he needed him to tell him that it would be okay.

The barrel of the gun was trained upon the bomb, his hand steady, his face as solid as stone. He gazed into the eyes of the just as unwavering Moriarty before looking back to his loyal companion again, one last time. And he saw it, the slightest of nods. It was all he required.

Sherlock fired within the very same instant and time slowed so that the bullet seemed to travel with the speed of a snail. Moriarty wasn't surprised but he was certainly disappointed. The shot rang like a requiem in the ears of the three men, each quickly figuring a means of escape, but it was much to Sherlock's surprise that John was the first to react. The man of war leapt just as the bullet struck the bomb, seizing his friend, dragging him into the pool.

The master detective, the man who was rarely thrown, was momentarily disoriented, unaware of where he was and what had happened. He was shocked back to reality, however, when he noticed a red liquid pooling and diluting in the water. He ignored the blast still raging on the surface, the fire, Moriarty, none of it mattered because he knew what had happened. Stupid John.

He could've screamed at him, hit him, but his lungs were burning for air and John, the only doctor close by, demanded immediate attention. He dropped the gun he still clutched in his hand, lifted his colleague into his arms, and swam for the surface. The shrapnel protruding from his back, what he shielded Sherlock from, made it difficult to hold him but he was determined. He pulled himself up first, keeping a firm grasp on John's arm, then dragged the idiot up stomach side down.

"John?" Sherlock asked, moving John's head to one side. "John, are you conscious? I need your expertise."

A weak grunt followed by a sputter emanated from the seriously injured man. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to speak. The fire was spreading fast in the pool room, devouring the walls with a voracious appetite. Sherlock patted his pockets for the familiar form of his phone and found it in his right pocket. He flipped it open and attempted to turn it on with no result.

"Where's your phone?" he asked John calmly in an attempt to hide all panic from view.

"Dinn brrn it," he slurred.

"What?"

"Didn't bring it," he tried again.

"What good ARE you?" he shouted, his emotions getting the better of him.

His fear was eating him alive, the smoke filling his lungs was burning his chest, but the look of hurt on his friends face caught the better of him and brought it back down.

"Sorry," he said softly.

He glanced at the blood, his heart stuttering at the sheer volume surrounding the doctor, before frantically pressing every button his cell offered to no avail. He tried again. And again. And again. Until a spark of light on the screen ignited his hope. The phone sprung to life and he texted the first person that crossed his mind: Inspector Lestrade.

Urgent!  
At pool. Send an ambulance.

-SH

"John, what am I to do about this shrapnel?" he asked, attempting to shield his mouth and nose with his arm

"All that knowledge and you never thought to learn how to staunch a bleed?" he smiled before coughing up more blood.

"It was pointless! I never expected to have to save someone myself! I work with the dead!"

"Calm down, Sherlock. It was just a joke."

"Help me. What do I have to do?"

"Put… pressure around the wounds. Remove nothing, it'll only make it worse."

"I… I can't do all of them."

"The worst one."

Without a second thought, he ripped off a sleeve of his jacket and wrapped it around the edge of a particularly bloody wound and pressed down. John shouted in pain, startling Sherlock and causing him to step away.

"No, keep the pressure."

"Right," he said, picking up where he left off. "Where is Lestrade?"

Sherlock moved from wound to wound but blood continued to spill and he felt more and more helpless. Sweat was dripping from every pore as the flames spread, always hungry. Time was crawling, there were no sirens, and Johns life was dyeing the floor red.

"John," Sherlock asked with no response. "John?"

Still nothing.

He looked at John's face which was unmoving, he checked his pulse and it was too faint for his liking. He shook him gently and then harder and the doctor was still unresponsive.

"JOHN WATSON, IF YOU DIE ON ME I'LL KILL YOU!"

He couldn't wait any longer. If the ambulance wasn't going to arrive he would carry John to the hospital himself. He moved him into a sitting position, wrapped his arms loosely around his neck and picked him up as one would a child to avoid touching the metal and plastic jutting from his back. Adrenaline carried them both out of the burning building and down the street. Never faltering, Sherlock Holmes ran towards the closest hospital, draining all of the energy that was left in his body. As far as he thought he had run, he hadn't run far enough. His blacked lungs captured his breath. He couldn't make his legs move and he collapsed under the weight of his only friend.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I've failed you."

As Sherlock's consciousness retreated, the last thing he swore he heard before the blackness was a siren.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock awoke after being jostled by a particularly nasty bump in the road. With groggy eyes, he looked around him, noting the tight quarters and the medical machinery. He was in an ambulance and he was relieved. He gazed down and noticed that he was attached to a portable oxygen tank, the mask of which he promptly ripped off to cough up a mouthful of the soot in his lungs. Upon closer inspection he saw that he was covered in blood not his own. One of the paramedics up front realized he was awake and turned to him with the intention of helping but he brushed her off.

"No, no, I'm fine. My friend, in the other ambulance, do you know how he is?"

"I'm sorry, sir, we don't know."

He sighed, deciding to lie back on the stretcher and stare at the wall. He thought of John, hoping he didn't lose as much blood as he assumed he did, when a tiny, nagging thought occurred to him. It had been buried at the back of his mind when John's safety was pushed to the forefront and that thought was: What happened to Moriarty?

He had assumed that he'd died in the explosion because it was circumstantially convenient but to stop and think about it, it was unlikely. Moriarty was just as smart as Sherlock and wouldn't go down by his hand if he could help it.

"Inspector Lestrade sent you? Where is he?" he asked the paramedic.

"He'll be at the hospital not long after we arrive," she responded.

"Good," he said to himself.

It was then, when he knew that there was nothing he could do, that he realized how bored he was before drifting back into the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock… Sherlock!"

"What!" he cried, startled awake by a familiar figure.

"The doctors say you're fine and you can leave at any time," Lestrade said, standing at Sherlock's bedside.

"Doctors… what about John?"

Lestrade looked grim and he hesitated in his response. "You'll have to see for yourself."

Sherlock reacted poorly to his response, tearing out wires and his IV, climbing out of his bed before the Inspector could stop him.

"Sherlock, wait!"

He was already dressed and pushing through the crowd of doctors, nurses, and orderlies while Lestrade chased after him. He caught him by the arm, stopping him momentarily.

"Why did you text me?"

"I don't have time for this," he snapped.

"You don't even know where he is. One question and I'll tell you."

He turned on him, causing the Inspector to stop abruptly. "What?"

"You texted me when you could've done nine-nine-nine directly. Why?"

"Moriarty."

"What?"

"I met Moriarty there. He had John strapped to a bomb. I needed you because it's a crime scene. It was Moriarty and a number of snipers."

"I'll have a team check for bodies once the fire is out. Do you think that he's dead?"

"No, but there is always need of proof. Now, where?"

"ICU, 514."

"Thank you," he replied shortly before rushing to the nearest lift.

He skidded down the hall with the lifts, noticing that he was on the second floor, and pressed the up button repeatedly, as though it would help it reach the floor faster. When he heard the ding of arrival he felt a minimal sense of relief before boarding and pressing the five button. Time couldn't have moved any slower but he was pleased when the doors opened on the fifth floor without having to make extraneous stops.

The ICU was well labeled, the direction to take plastered in front of him as he stepped out of the lift, and he was outside of the heavy wooden door in less than a minute. The heavy wooden door that could only be used if the nurse on the other side buzzed it open. He knew he wouldn't be allowed, he wasn't a relative, but he could wait for someone else to be let in. He was stressed, so many obstacles were keeping him from his companion, and he didn't even know how he was fairing.

He waited, pacing for ten minutes, before a family approached the door and paged the nurse for access. Sherlock nodded to them out of courtesy and continued to pace, waiting to make his move. As the last person walked through the threshold, he stopped the door with his foot and joined them, blending in with the group until he had the chance to wander off.

He stayed discreetly behind the group as they made their way to the ill family member they were visiting, deciding to walk away when the hall seemed clear of personnel. Room 514 wasn't hard to find, he had been heading in that direction to begin with, but the room wasn't as empty as he'd hoped. A doctor and a couple of nurses were standing around one of the two beds but Sherlock was not turning back. He walked a few steps into the room before being noticed.

"Excuse me, who are you?" the doctor questioned.

"Er, I'm the… brother. Harry Watson."

"Oh," he replied, looking a bit surprised.

"How is my brother? Is he alright?" Sherlock asked with the most genuine concern.

"His condition is still mildly critical but we have him stabilized. We've removed the shrapnel and debris, closed his wounds, and we're replenishing his blood supply as we speak."

"Is… he awake? Can I see him?"

"Yes, just not for too long. He's going to need a lot of rest."

The doctor smiled at him before leaving the room to check on his other patients. He could hardly contain himself as he rounded the sheet obstructing John's bed from view. His friend was propped up with so many tubes and machines on and around him he almost didn't look human. Sherlock was in mild shock at the sight, keeping his emotions buried just beneath the surface, when the smile he knew so well assured him that this was still John Watson.

"Harry, something seems different about you," he said weakly with a smirk.

"Well, I had to say something," he replied, sitting in the chair beside him.

"You look like hell."

"_I_ look like hell?"

"I don't know what I look like but if it's anything like I feel then I'm ashamed for you to see me this way."

Sherlock glanced to the second bed, which was empty, and then to his hands resting in his lap. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. You look good, considering."

"That's good to hear."

They sat awkwardly for a few minutes, each mulling things over in their minds. Sherlock mostly wondered what John was thinking. If he regretting saving him, if he hated him because of it, because he knew he hated himself for what happened.

"Did we get him?" John asked, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts.

"Who?"

"Moriarty?"

"Oh," he didn't want to tell him because it meant his sacrifice was in vein but he deserved to know. "No, I don't believe we did."

John looked hard at Sherlock before responding. "It's okay. We'll get him eventually. His crimes won't go unpunished."

Sherlock was shocked at his utter lack of anger, frustration. What was wrong with this man?

"What is it?" John asked, reading him even though Sherlock was showing nothing.

"How can you not be mad? At me, especially. After what you did to save me and this happened to you."

"I don't regret it, if that's what you're thinking."

"Why did you do it? I was prepared to die."

"The world isn't prepared for you to die," he paused. "Nor am I."

"No? Did you even _think_ for one moment about how _I _would feel? What I would've done if you'd died?"

John lingered in thought before responding. "I love you too."

Sherlock looked utterly terrified. "I, er, no. I never said that. It's just, it's hard to find an assistant who will work with me like you do."

John grasped Sherlock's bloody lapel and tugged in a frail attempt to pull him closer. Sherlock, innocently assuming he had something to say, leaned closer only to be startled by a pair of warm lips pressed against his. His brain screamed at him to pull away but something else, instinct, possibly, grabbed the controls. He kissed back, stumbling over the lips of his companion, hesitant and unsure in his movements.

As a boy he was solitary, as a teen he'd felt no attraction toward any human, kissing was something he'd never done. John guided him, pushing him in the right directions, and Sherlock was able to catch on quickly. He leaned into the man who saved his life and, in response, John entangled his fingers in Sherlock's dark, curly hair. The heart rate monitor John was attached to became frantic, attracting the attention of a nearby nurse, forcing them to pull apart.

"What's going on in here?" she asked, looking from one man to the other.

"Nothing, I guess I was just a little excited. My brother told me he's getting married."

"Well, I think that's enough excitement for today. Your brother should leave," she said, her gaze lingering pointedly on Sherlock.

"Of course," he said, standing up and looking to John. "I'll be back tomorrow."

Sherlock turned to leave but John caught his hand, forcing him to turn back.

"Thank you for that, Harry. I needed something good."

"So did I," he smiled, squeezing his hand once before letting it go.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock entered the lift on his return trip in a considerably better mood than his ride up, the feeling of John's lips still tingling on his own. His heart was fluttering in his chest and he was experiencing emotions he'd never felt before. He could've walked with a skip if he hadn't been trying so hard to hide what he was feeling. As he headed to the check-out desk he pulled out his phone to text Lestrade again.

What did you find?

-SH

A few minutes after the text was sent, as he was stepping out of the hospital, his phone rang, which he promptly answered.

"Well, what _did _you find?"

"Exactly what you'd thought, Sherlock. We found bodies but only the snipers, there was no Moriarty. If he died, he didn't do it there."

"Mm, well, contact me if you find something of importance," he said, hanging up before the Inspector could respond.

Outside of the hospital he quickly hailed a cab, being strangely nice to the man behind the wheel.

"Two-two-one b, Baker Street, please," he told the cabbie before climbing into the back.

When the black cab hit the gas, he stared out of the window, watching the scenery fly past, transfixed. He was left alone with his thoughts but, unbeknownst to himself, he was his own worst enemy. Self-sabotage was imminent. He began to drown in his mind, his thoughts consuming his feelings through self-deprecating logic.

'_What did I just do?' _is the thought that started his spiral. _'I kissed John, but why? Because I love him? Yes… I think I do, anyway.'_

His thoughts split in two, turning into an argument between his head and heart.

'_John loves me too.'_

'_Does he? Could it not be possible that he was so overcome by the excitement and joy of being alive after such an ordeal that he was carried away? Maybe his feelings are a fallacy.'_

'_No, John's not like that. He wouldn't do that to me.'_

'_But what about what you could do to him?'_

'_What do you mean?'_

'_Look at what just living with you, helping you, did to him. Next time will he live?'_

'_I… I don't know.'_

'_And what kind of relationship would yours be, anyway? You are emotionally unavailable, you've never known the touch of another, you're married to your work. Would you have time for him? Would you be able to show love to him? John requires tangible love.'_

Sherlock considered this, waiting several minutes before responding to himself.

'_You're right. This could never work. Every second he's near me is an opportunity for him to be hurt or killed. I need to let him go because I'll be his death.'_

'_Now you're thinking clearly,' _the brain concluded, quite pleased with itself.

He laid back in his seat, sinking into it, despising who he was. He wished he could've been like everyone else. Simple mind, simple life, he might've still met John and they could've been together, but no. He was logical, he was complex, he was Sherlock Holmes and would always be so.


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of his ride home was abysmal. His mind had continued to calculate more reasons as to why he and John would never work, even though he'd given up long before. Sherlock hastily paid the driver and headed up to his flat to sulk privately. He was halfway up the stairs before a text made him pause. The phone vibrated in his pocket but he had no desire to look at it or make contact with anyone. He only wanted to apply an unnecessary amount of nicotine patches and comatose on the couch until Mrs. Hudson arrived to feed him.

Sherlock seriously considered texting his drug dealer, a very reliable man, for something recreational rather than experimental. Unfortunately, he knew that if he started that again he would spiral far too deep to escape, no matter how clearly he could think. He attempted to sneak into his flat but, as his hand closed around the cool metal of the door handle, Mrs. Hudson spotted him.

"Oh, Sherlock! What happened to you?"

Sherlock slumped and trudged back to his landlady. "It was nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Just a little explosion."

"You're covered in blood, dear!"

"Yes, it's not mine."

"Where's John?" she asked, slowly piecing what happened together.

"He's fine. He's at the hospital but he's fine."

"What have you two been up to! Sherlock, your lifestyle isn't right for that man. You'll get yourselves killed one of these days."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sighed, walking back to the door and throwing it open in a huff.

He slunk into the flat and walked straight toward the drawer where he kept his patches when another text disrupted him. He reached into his pocket to looked at who had sent it only to be put off by the name Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock grimaced at his screen and replaced the phone without a second thought. He plucked out the box and had just applied the fourth patch when his phone vibrated once more.

"What could you possibly need to tell me so badly, Mycroft?" he mumbled to himself, fumbling with his phone.

He stared hard at the screen, expecting to see his brothers meaningless ramblings, but there was no name. It only said Blocked Number. This certainly grabbed his interest. With copious amounts of nicotine coursing though his body he felt very alert and ready as he looked to see what _he _had to say.

He braced himself, expecting something gruesome, hateful, threatening but there was just one word: Check.


	6. Chapter 6

Check.

His brain automatically ran a search on all meanings of the word he knew and every context that made sense. To examine something, to confirm a truth or accuracy of something, to prevent something from being expressed, to-. He stopped himself. He was looking at the word in the wrong light. It's wasn't being used in the form of a verb, it was a warning. In chess a check is when the King is compromised but is still able to escape. Moriarty was still playing a game and wanted to make sure Sherlock knew that. He was sending a message that he had Sherlock in his sights but there was still a way out. The question was, what's the way out and why did Moriarty want to let him know he had one?

That text was a godsend of sorts because it was a welcome distraction. He stared at that one word, absorbing it, before throwing his phone at the chair with the union flag pillow. Afterward, he collapsed on the couch to think, placing his hands together with the tips just under his chin like he were praying. It was a zen-like state which he stayed in for the rest of the night. Time was meaningless when he thought. It could've taken minutes or days as he was lost and unmoving. It was just him inside his own mind with nothing but pure logic and reasoning. It was so… easy.

Sleep managed to consume him seamlessly, a perfect transition from thinking to dreaming. He could've slept for most of the day had it not been for someone knocking on his door. The couch had not been friendly to him in his slumber, information that his back had been happy to relay when he tried to move. Judging by the lack of force behind the knocks, he figured it was Mrs. Hudson trying to grab his attention.

"Ugh, what is it, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock shouted as he sat up to work the kinks out of his back.

"I got a call from the hospital. Could you open the door, dear?"

"Be right there!" He looked down at the ripped and bloody suit from the day before. His landlady wouldn't be pleased to see that he was still in the same clothes, these clothes especially. Sherlock decided to grab his robe from his room before answering the door.

"Who called from the hospital?" he asked, wrapping the blue silk tightly around himself.

"It was John. They moved him out of the ICU and into room, what was it now, 306? I'm sure that was it. He wanted to know when you were going to visit today. I told him I would get you moving but I couldn't be sure of the time."

"I'm on my way. I needed to tell him something anyway."

"Okay, dear, I'll call him back and tell him," she said, walking back to her own flat.

He shut the door behind her and rushed to the shower to clean himself up. Stripping off his clothes felt like peeling off a layer of dirt, it was a wonderful feeling. He dropped the ruined suit on the bathroom floor before stepping under the lukewarm water. The liquid washed over his skin, pulling off the dried blood and sweat and dragging it down the drain. He tilted his head up toward the water jets and tried to drown himself in momentary comfort. The water trailed from his face, down his neck, and he could feel each drop.

The mindlessness of it was relaxing but he had somewhere to be so he snapped out of it long enough to wash his body and hair. When he felt clean enough he stopped the water, standing in the shower for a few minutes after to let the excess drip off of him. He stepped out and grabbed the towel hanging up on the wall to dry himself before wrapping it around his waist. He walked to his room, leaving wet footprints in his wake, to pick out a suit for this occasion. Something dark but something John liked so that he wouldn't feel so bad when he told him…

He decided on a black suit with the purple dress shirt he knew John liked. He had noticed the way the doctor had looked at him when he wore it so, unconsciously, he had been making it a point to wear it as often as possible. Sherlock dressed quickly, dried his hair, and pulled on his coat and scarf before leaving the flat. He hailed a taxi and thought about what he would say the whole ride to the hospital. It was torture. He considered going back several times, calling him to tell him over the phone, but he couldn't. John deserved to hear it face-to-face.

He had to force himself out of the cab when it pulled up to the sterile building. He moved swiftly from lobby to lift to the third floor without attracting any attention. His palms started to sweat and his mouth was dry but he pushed on, walking past the rooms until he was at the door frame of 306. He inhaled, holding his breath for a minute, and let it out while wiping his hands off on his jacket.

Sherlock walked solemnly into the hospital room, wondering how he would be able to face John. As he passed the curtain, his friends face lit up, making his stomach do flips in the hearts final attempt to change his mind. He tried a feeble smile in return but failed miserably. As he sat in the chair beside his bed, John reached for Sherlock's hand, but he shied away. He gave a John an apologetic look which caused his happy expression to collapse.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"A lot. A lot is wrong," he replied, working up his courage.

"Can you give me an example?" he said, laughing nervously.

"This… _thing _we have…"

"You mean a relationship?"

"Yes. It's not going to work."

"What?" he shouted, sitting up far too fast than he should've been capable of.

"John, please. Just listen. We'd never work out. That kiss, I was just caught up in the moment. I don't have any real feelings for you and I don't believe you have any real feelings for me."

"That's rubbish. You're joking, right?"

"Not at all. In fact, I think you should probably move out," he concluded, matter-of-factly.

"Move out? Where do you think I'm going to go? I can't afford a place on my own. Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."

"Why not move in with Sarah," he said, ignoring John. "She likes you. You should go to her."

"Be with Sarah! Sherlock, I don't even like Sarah anymore. I mean, we're still friends…"

"Good! Friends are good. You'll get along great then," he said with the best fake smile he could muster.

"Sherlock…," John pleaded.

Sherlock had already turned away. He couldn't look into those doe eyes of John's, he'd melt into an emotional puddle. How could one man do all of this to him? He moved toward the door, hiding his face from view with his collar, when John tried one last time.

"Sherlock!"

Oh, he could hear that shake, the tremor in that one word, the harbinger of tears. He couldn't stop walking, though. He'd made up his mind and no matter how much he wanted to comfort his companion, to hold him tightly and let him cry into his shoulder, he had to stick to it. Even if it hurt him to the core of his soul.


	7. Chapter 7

Tears built up around the brim of his eyes, the first real ones in a very long time. He didn't bother with the lift on the way down and found the stairs instead. He jogged down three flights and out of the building where he bypassed the cab and decided to walk home. He deserved to be alone with his thoughts for as long as possible.

He buried his face in his collar just as the tension broke and the tears dropped. As he walked the wind caught and dried the salty drops but he could still feel their ghost trails on his cheeks. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve without stopping and tried to push back his emotions. The people he walked past started to stare because he moved with swift purpose. He wasn't on a leisurely walk, he just wanted to be home.

'_It's okay, Sherlock, you did the right thing," _his brain consoled him.

'_No, you deserve this pain for what you did to John,' _his heart snapped.

'_Would you leave him alone. He's been through a lot.'_

'_And whose fault is that?'_

"Would you just shut up? SHUT UP!" Sherlock shouted at the air, attracting even more unwanted attention.

He gazed around at those who paused and stared before putting his head down, shoving his hands in his pockets, and continuing on. The argument within continued and he allowed it to, he thought he deserved the torment, but with each harsh word from the heart his emotions threatened to rise to the surface again. He walked the back streets to keep as far away from other people as possible, it was easy since he knew every street and every route he could take. He managed to make it to Baker Street with minimal emotional bruising.

Sherlock looked at the door branded 221B and felt a sense of relief mixed with sorrow knowing that he would no longer see John in the flat. There would be no more of his smiles at Sherlock's expense or anger towards the strange places he left his experiments. He sighed as he fished through his pockets for his key. He found it in his coat pocket and was just about to stick it in the lock when the door knob turned. He retracted the key and stared suspiciously at the door until it opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. The landlady looked as though she could hardly contain herself about something.

"Sherlock, dear! You had a visitor stop by," she blurted, ushering Sherlock indoors.

"A visitor?" he asked, slightly astonished. "Was it an older man claiming to be my brother?"

"Oh, no, he was a young man," she said, closing the door behind Sherlock. "He said he was a good friend of yours. I didn't think you had any friends other than John."

"I don't. Did you let him inside, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, he said that he just wanted to leave a message and then he left."

Sherlock's body ran rigid. He knew who it was, of course he knew. To think of him in his home made him sick.

"You need to be more wary of who you allow in," he said before charging up to the flat.

Upon first glance everything seemed as it was. The flat looked, to the normal man, like an explosion had just occurred but it was a systematic mess to Sherlock. He looked around once, taking everything in, and then a second time for close examination. He found the message quickly, since it was in a place that Sherlock would've looked to on a regular basis. It was a photo propped up against his skull, a photo that, at first glance, chilled him.

The photo was of John Watson in his hospital bed, unconscious. Was he dead, sleeping, knocked out? It was a few seconds before he worked out that he was just sleeping. He could tell by the color in his face and the peaceful, naïve expression. He deduced that it must've been taken the night before, which meant that _he _had never stopped following Sherlock. Jim Moriarty wanted to play it out until the very end. He turned the photo over where there was a message written in red pen: _This game isn't over. Your pawn is in place. Will you sacrifice him to save your King?_

The photo crumpled within his balled fist and his hands shook with rage. He had taken it too far. It wasn't a game anymore, it was Moriarty prodding a madman with a stick and he was about to see what happened when Sherlock lost all control. He marched toward the desk where he kept his gun and checked the clip before stuffing it into his pocket. He was two steps from the door, hand outstretched, when his phone rang. He paused, looking back at the chair where he'd left it. It could only be him, he knew, and as much as he didn't want to hear what he had to say, logic gave way to compulsion. He ran to the phone and answered it.

"If you've hurt him, Moriarty, I swear-"

"_Hurt him? No, of course not. Not yet, anyway," _he replied in his Irish tenor._ "I want to drag this out for as long as possible. I want to hurt _you_, Sherlock. I want to watch you die from the inside out."_

"What makes you think doing anything to him would hurt me?"

"_Because of your… inhibitor. Your heart is what keeps you from becoming just like me. So, I'm going to rip it out of your chest. Would you like to watch?"_

Sherlock dug his nails into the palm of his free hand. "I won't have to watch. I will stop you."

"_No, because you're not the great mind I thought you were. You've let your feelings for this man get in the way of our game and I can't stand for that. Still, in light of this game, I've given your pet a choice. Would you like to know what it was?"_

He could hear the gleeful contempt in Moriarty's voice. "What?"

"_I told him that I would kill you and I gave him the choice to take your place. I'll give you two chances to guess the answer!"_

"I will kill you. I will wipe that self-satisfied look that I know you have off of your face. I will watch the life leave your eyes and enjoy every second of it," his voice shook as he spoke, blood was dripping from the cracks between his fingers as his nails dug deeper.

"_You promise?"_

"With everything I have."

"_Big words for a man with a conscience. Why don't you come down to the hospital and put them to the test."_

"I'm on my way," he snapped, hanging up and placing the cell in his jacket pocket.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock left the flat, directed and consumed by rage. He'd never been so quite so emotional before, he always kept a mostly level head, but this was circumstantial. Moriarty had done something that he wouldn't get away with. He hailed a cab, shouted the destination at the driver, and jumped in the back feeling incredibly impatient. He shuffled around in the seat of the taxi, huffing and tapping his foot.

"Could you possibly go any slower," Sherlock snapped.

He could tell that the cabbie was growing irritated with him but he couldn't help it. He was about to say something especially rude when his phone rang shrilly, cutting through his train of thought. Moriarty was his first thought but when he plucked the phone from his pocket a different name was displayed on the screen. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock grimaced at the thought of his brother and ignored his call.

"I could care less what you have to say," he mumbled under his breath.

He gazed out of the window, trying to lose time in the scenery, but all he could see was John being shot. He knew that Moriarty would wait for him to be there, that was his master plan, but the thought was seared into his mind. It replayed over and over, a sick and twisted self-torture. He tried to think of something else, anything else, but he couldn't. He suffered with the thought until the black cab pulled up in front of the hospital.

He threw money at the man up front and leapt from the taxi, hardly bothering to shut the door behind him. The lot immediately seemed so quiet and strange. He couldn't see anyone in the lobby through the glass doors so he entered the building on guard. He pulled his gun from his pocket and held it defensively, looking carefully around the first corner before walking down the hall.

Each step was soft and soundless, he made sure of it, but that was no help to him. He reached the end of the first hall, slowly making his way toward the lifts, but as he stole a glance around the corner of his goal he saw something he should've expected. The lifts were guarded by four armed men. Sherlock could have tried to use the stairs but he knew he would find the same situation. He could hold his own in a fight, one-on-one or even two-on-one, but he couldn't handle four men with guns. He decided he would just have to give himself up. It wouldn't have been right to kill them and they would take him Moriarty.

He placed the gun in the back of his pants and covered it with his jacket before making his move. With his hands in the air he walked around the corner, surrendering himself to the trained gunmen. They didn't notice him at first, he didn't say anything, but once he was close enough they reacted, very unfavorably. Without warning they uniformly attacked him, pinning him to the ground.

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned as he received a knee to the spine and a particularly nasty kick to the head.

His face was ground into the cold linoleum as his body was violated by four pairs of hands. They pulled the gun from his waist line and, once they were satisfied he had no other weapons, they dragged him to his feet with his hands restrained by one of the men. He was just pleased the floor was clean, he rather liked the suit he was wearing.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" the armed man in front of him asked in a threatening manner with his gun pointed at his heart.

"I am, indeed," he replied with nonchalance.

"You're supposed to come with us," he said, lowering the weapon to his side.

"So I concluded."

The three he could see glared at him with an intense hatred which was amplified by the knowledge that they couldn't do anything to him, at least not yet. Sherlock grinned at this. He enjoyed being in a position of power even if it was a small, short-lived one. The man who had a hold of his arms pushed him forward and the other three flanked his sides and front. While keeping in formation all five of them stuffed themselves into a lift and began their journey to the third floor.


	9. Chapter 9

"It wouldn't be possible for you to let go of my hands, would it?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence and tension that permeated the small space. "I mean, what could I really do?"

"Mr. Moriarty tells us you're smart and crafty. I won't chance anything," the man behind him breathed into the back of his head.

"Right," he sighed, attempting to adjust his arms into a more comfortable position. "Where is everyone, anyway?"

"No small talk, Mr. Holmes," the man in front of him snapped.

"Touchy," he mumbled loud enough for him to hear.

The man turned and shot him a look of contempt to which Sherlock replied with a look of innocent amusement. The very heavily armed man scowled and faced forward, most likely wishing he would get to kill Sherlock and would relish the moment. A few seconds later and the doors slid open to expose the emptiness of the third floor. There were no sounds, no machines running, no doctors or nurses rushing about. Sherlock wondered how Moriarty had pulled it off without alerting the police. He knew the man was impressive but he was even more impressed.

They pushed him along, moving swiftly down the halls until they approached room 306. The room had two more guards standing on each side of the threshold, both with the same amount of weaponry as the four men surrounding him. The man up front nodded to the two men, who gave a slight nod in return, and then the man holding him pushed him into the closed door.

"Oops," he said, spitting on the back of his neck as he spoke.

The man then opened the hospital room door and tried again. Sherlock stumbled into the mostly deserted room and the door was closed behind him. He composed himself and straightened out his suit before moving further into the room. John's bed was still blocked off by the curtain so he had to walk a few paces before he could see any of the room. As soon as the white walls inched into view that jolly high-pitched Irish voice scraped across his eardrums.

"Sherlock! How lovely of you to join us."

"I'll bet," he snapped, moving further into the room.

He needed to have a view of John; he needed to know he was okay. A couple more steps and there he was, unharmed and scared. He was propped up in his bed, looking back and forth from Sherlock to Moriarty with his sad puppy eyes. He wasn't restrained or gagged but he knew his place in the situation and chose not to move or speak. When John looked at him he could see something in his eyes but it was an unidentifiable emotion to him. Sherlock just wanted nothing more than to take him in his arms and carry him back home. He opted not to look at him and instead focused his attentions on the bastard that brought him there.

"John and I were just having a little chat. It was about you, actually. What a coincidence."

Moriarty was leaning with his back against the wall, standing beside John. He looked Sherlock over, sizing him up, and whatever conclusion he was brought to caused a smirk to spread over his face. He pushed himself up so he was flat on his feet and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Well, I was doing the talking. John is a beautiful listener, I can see why you keep him around. A pet like him has its perks."

"He's not a pet."

"So you seem to think," he said, turning to John with the same scanning gaze. "He's an idiot and a fool, and to be both is quite the accomplishment! He's also so very full of useless emotions. Like love, for instance."

Sherlock stiffened, his muscles tightening, reacting to that one word: love. Moriarty spotted his reaction and smiled. Not a warm, understanding smile. It was the cold, sly smile of a snake that's seen the weakness of its prey.

"Ah, yes, love. Such a strange emotion, don't you think. It's a debilitating disease that eats away at the mind, incapacitating all sense of rational thought," he paused, seeming to think about something for a moment, and then pulled out a handgun from his waist band. He pressed the barrel to John's temple, causing him to flinch in fear. "Once the disease has set in and then is ripped away suddenly, well… that has quite the effect on the heart, doesn't it?"

Sherlock's body lurched forward slightly, as if to make a move to stop Moriarty but thought better of it. The consulting criminal grinned.

"Normally I would never do this myself but this is a special situation. I've put myself on the line for this so the job will have my full effort and attention."

Sherlock started to panic. It was all moving along too quickly. He needed to distract him, to take his mind off of killing John for a few minutes until he thought of a way to stop him.

"This is a theatrical set-up just for me. What did you do with everyone?"

"Hmm?" he looked away from John to Sherlock, the arm with the gun slackening a little but still pressed to John's head. "All of the people and patients from the first three floors were moved to floors four and up. I wanted a little privacy for us."

"And you stormed a hospital with an army of gunmen without alerting the police."

"Oh, I'm sure someone in the building has had the chance to tip them off by now but I still have time. The job can be done before I'm taken in."

"You plan to be arrested?" Sherlock asked, sufficiently surprised.

"For a time, yes, and then I'll escape. It'll be worth it in the end," Moriarty dropped his arm and moved closer to Sherlock. "I'm sure you'll be fully formed by the time I'm free again."

"What are you talking about?"

He moved in so close that only Sherlock could hear him. "I'm going to give you the vaccine for your disease and it will break you. But when you heal you'll be so much more beautiful. You'll be me."


	10. Chapter 10

Everything Sherlock had been trying to plan was lost in his words. His jaw slackened, his brain went numb, he no longer could form a full sentence. He had to do something, though. Moriarty was turning his attention back to John but there was space between them. A small plan started to formulate, one that would solve most of the problems in the current equation, but he had to choose to go through with it.

"We have been regarded as freaks in this world, you and I. We need to show them that we're superior. Don't you want to be respected rather than looked down on?"

His sight moved to John who had been silent the entire time. He was trying to convey his words with his eyes. Sherlock could see that he looked more worried about him than himself. He wondered what he must've looked like to him. Pale and nervous, he was sure, maybe even a bit nauseous. He tried to show John that it was going to be okay but he wasn't quite as adept at expressing messages so subtly. If he picked up on it, he didn't show it.

"Yes, of course," he replied, turning back to Moriarty. "Why wouldn't I want that?"

"It's just another example of how similar we are."

"Similar but not the same."

"Not yet."

Moriarty was done with Sherlock at that point, he could see. His gun turned back to the doctor sitting helplessly in his hospital bed. John stared at Sherlock, his eyes telling him to go but he couldn't. He shook his head slightly in response leaving John looking sad and mildly disappointed. It didn't matter how he felt toward him, all that mattered is that he left the hospital alive. It was then that Moriarty smirked and Sherlock saw it. He had tightened his grip around the trigger ever so slightly and he knew that if he was going to make the choice he had to do it right then. The choice was all too easy to make. It was his turn to do the protecting.

He ran and slid along the slick, linoleum surface as the shot cracked through the air. He threw out his body to shield John and it jerked to a stand still as it completed its mission: stopping the bullet. The bullet ripped through him easily but didn't exit, most likely slowed down by the bone. The debris from the wound splattered John who looked on horrified. Sherlock fell to his knees, blood quickly soaking his shirt, but he had a smug grin on his face. He had won, he saved the man he loved, and no one could tell him otherwise.

"NO!" Moriarty raged.

"Sherlock!" John cried, reaching out for him but he fell just outside of his grasp.

He moved for him anyway, not caring that the sudden jerk caused his stitches to rip. He held him under his arms and dragged him halfway up on the bed, red liquid leaking through his own shirt. He brushed the curly locks from his friend's face as he visibly tried to fight off his tears.

"Sherlock, please don't die."

"This is really touching but not according to my plan," Moriarty snapped, looking furious. "If I don't get to have him then I'll still kill you while he's alive. He'll suffer for this."

He cocked the gun and aimed for John's head but John made no move to avoid it. Sherlock weakly tried to push him down but he wouldn't budge.

"John, please," he croaked.

"No," he said defiantly.

Sherlock's life poured out over John as they both waited patiently for death. He stared into John's eyes, wanting to tell him how he truly felt but couldn't. He felt weaker each second and it was hard for him to hold on. He was reaching out for John's hand when a shot sliced through the air and he flinched. He shut his eyes tightly and couldn't bring himself to look up and see him dead, his sanity wouldn't have been able to handle it, but he was surprised when he felt someone stroke his face with a shaky hand. He opened one eye and then the other. John was still alive.

There was another shot and then another and another. He could hear bodies drop heavily to the floor. He looked to Moriarty but he hadn't fired. In fact, he looked just as shocked. It didn't take him long to realize, however, that the shots weren't from his men because he was frantically scanning the room for an escape. All thoughts of killing John seemed vacant from his mind which caused Sherlock to relax a little. His thoughts grew fuzzy and it became hard for him to think coherently. He wasn't even clear enough to be startled when the door was kicked in and a small army marched into the room.

"James Moriarty, you're going to have to come with us!" The leader of the group shouted, pointing his weapon defensively at the man in the suit.

Moriarty was smart and wasn't about to bait them into getting himself shot. He held up his hands in surrender and the army men charged him, restraining him in handcuffs and almost knocking him over. He had an expression of pure anger and insanity that was directed at Sherlock and John, one of whom it barely registered for. He had a few last words before they pulled him away, though, and he wanted to make sure they hit home.

"I will make good on my plan," Moriarty hissed, struggling against his bonds to give him more time to talk. "Sherlock Holmes, if you live I will destroy you and if you don't I want you to die knowing that once I escape I will relish spilling the blood of John Watson by my own hand."

He was dragged out satisfied, knowing his words cracked through the haze of the dying man. Sherlock, having lost all color in his face, clutched Johns arm protectively. He was feeling very light headed as he turned his attention to the military force that still lingered at the doorway. It certainly wasn't the police, he concluded as someone pushed through the hoard. He was unsurprised to see it was Mycroft weaving his way into the room closely followed by Anthea.

"Of course it was you," Sherlock said, losing his grip on consciousness.

"You really need to learn to answer your phone," he said, looking at his little brother knowingly.

Mycroft hurried to Sherlock's aid, examining him for where the bullet struck. He pulled off his suit jacket and shirt with the help of John but looked very pale, most likely at what he saw.

"John, you're going to need to work your medical magic while I go and fetch some of the staff held captive upstairs."

"Yeah, okay," John replied nervously, looking around the room to see what he had to work with.

He looked to Anthea who nodded and the two rushed out of the room. Sherlock was sweating, feeling cold and hot at the same time, and his breaths became quick and shallow. John pulled him all the way onto the bed and started to clean away the blood. He was unable to move very fast because the pain was debilitating and he was still losing blood himself. Just as John appeared over him holding an IV needle he slipped into darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

_Is this what being dead is like?, _he thought. If it was, it was dark, quiet, and very painful. Especially in the vicinity of his left shoulder. _No, I'm not dead_, he decided as he was able to move slightly. When he listened harder he could hear the soft beeps and whirs of machinery in the background. He groaned and tried to open his eyes but he was met with the resistance of having them shut for a long time. With more effort he was able to pry his lids apart only to be blinded by the florescent lights directly above him.

He had to blink a few times before the spots left the edges of his vision but once he could see he knew where he was. He definitely wasn't dead but he was in the hospital. There was something constricting his left arm, he could feel, and when he investigated he saw the bandages wrapped tightly around his shoulder and the left half of his chest. The bullet managed to strike in between his shoulder and his heart.

He attempted to sit up but his covers seemed to have been caught on something. That's when he looked down and noticed a person-shaped lump, half on the bed and sound asleep. Sherlock smiled affectionately at the sleeping man. He wondered how long John had stayed by his side, then he wondered how long he'd been in the hospital. He almost didn't want to disturb the doctor at his bedside but he had questions that needed answers.

"John," he whispered, prodding his shoulder lightly. When that didn't work he tried something a little louder.

"JOHN!"

"AHH!"

John bolted up to a sitting position but with such force that the chair he was sitting in tipped backward. He flailed in a sad attempt to keep himself from hitting the ground but gravity was working against him. He hit the floor with a thud and a cry of pain.

"That wasn't funny, Sherlock, my back is still healing," he complained, picking himself and the chair back up, not fully realizing that Sherlock was awake.

He paused, his hand on the back of the chair, thinking deeply. Realization finally dawned and he looked up at the detective like a child on Christmas morning. Sherlock grinned like an idiot at his reaction; he couldn't have asked for anything better. John practically launched himself at the man, pulling him into a tight and painful embrace.

After they broke apart John held him at arms length just to look at him. He touched his hair, his cheek, just to make sure he was real. When he seemed to be satisfied that it was his Sherlock he surprised him by grabbing his hospital gown at the collar and pulling him close. They stared at each other, noses almost touching. Sherlock's eyes were stating a feeling of uncertainty while John's were shining with desire.

"John, I don't think we-"

He was silenced by the soft, gentle kiss that John stole. It was so simple and sweet that whatever Sherlock was going to say slipped from his mind. He forgot his reasons for pushing him away and only wanted him closer. He returned the kiss with one that was harder and more desperate. John reacted with excitement, expressing joy and relief in the pressure and rhythm of his movements. Sherlock could barely form a simple thought, his mind and judgment had been clouded since their lips touched and he knew there was something important…

"Wait," he said, softly pushing John away. "I have questions."

"Can't they wait?"

They could've, Sherlock knew, but if they had started kissing again he wouldn't have been able to keep what he said to heart. They couldn't be together.

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Watson. I demand immediate answers."

"Okay, Mr. Holmes," he said, sitting in the bedside chair. "What do you need to know so badly?"

"How long have I been here?"

"Two days."

"I've been out for two days?"

"No, you woke up a couple of times but never lucidly. Not until today."

"Well, how long have you been here?"

"I never left," he said a little sheepishly.

"What? Why?"

"I've been the one treating you."

"Good to see I was left in the best of hands, then," he smiled. "How are your wounds doing?"

"The stitches should start to dissolve within the next week," he smiled back and reached for Sherlock's hand but he moved it away. John skipped sad and moved straight to furious. "You know, Sherlock, you were so willing to give this a try before and then literally overnight you change your mind. You kiss me and then refuse to even hold my hand. What is it that's so wrong with me?"

"It's not what's wrong with you it's what's wrong with me."

"Oh! It's not you it's me. Original," he snapped, leaving the chair and moving to the opposite side of the room.

"Please don't do this."

"I won't allow you to play these fucking games with my heart. Make a damn decision, Sherlock."

Rather than answering he inspected the wall beside his bed in great detail. "…What happened to Moriarty?"

"Imprisoned!" he shouted in the heat of the argument. He collected himself before continuing his answer. "I don't know where they took him. Mycroft wouldn't tell me. You know what, no. Don't change the subject."

"Being with me only hurts you. Look at what's happened so far. Ever since we met you've been in constant danger."

"I don't care about the danger! I like the danger!"

"Yes, but…"

"But what!"

"WHAT WOULD I DO IF YOU DIED! What would I do?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

"What would _I _do if _you _died?" he asked with a small amount of sympathy in his voice. "We take these risks every day because we like it and because it's exciting. We just have to take care of each other. It's worked out all right so far. Sherlock, if you let me I will take care of you."

"John…"

"What?"

"You don't have to move out."

He built up the courage to look at the doctor, who staring at him with weariness, frustration and a small spark of hope. John sighed and walked back to Sherlock's side, returning to the chair. They stared at each other for a minute, the detective's gaze wavering out of insecurity and shame. Finally, after what felt like ages, John held out his hand and, with minimal hesitance, Sherlock grasped it.


	12. Chapter 12

It was a few more days before Sherlock was allowed to leave, per John's orders. There was still tension between them but it was lightening as Sherlock attempted to prove himself. It was difficult for him. He'd never been in a relationship before and he didn't know exactly what to do. He tried his hardest, though. He used his phone to search the internet for proper gifts for a loved one and planned to try them out once he was out of the hospital. The one with the highest hits seemed to be flowers. He would try that first.

The two checked out together at the end of the week and were driven home by a car sent by Mycroft, who disappeared as soon as he was satisfied his brother would be okay. John wheeled Sherlock out in a wheelchair despite his vehement protests.

"John, really? I was shot in the chest. I can walk," he whined.

"It's hospital protocol," he said sternly, obviously trying not to laugh.

"You're doing this to demean me," he pouted, crossing his arms, an act that still took effort.

"No one likes a whiner. Suck it up, Sherlock, we're almost to the door."

He wheeled him out of the glass doors and onto the sidewalk where Sherlock was permitted to stand. He threw himself into the back of the sleek black car in a huff and John joined him, slightly amused. They didn't talk for a while, each looking out of their respective windows, but Sherlock kept glancing toward John. He had banned kissing for the time being because he was still upset.

He had said that they wouldn't be doing anything especially affectionate until Sherlock had finished working through his feelings. It was disappointing but understandable to him. Still, he figured hand holding couldn't have been out of the question. He looked at John's hand resting in between them and discreetly slipped his hand into his, the two fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. He gazed out of the window again as though nothing had happened but was reassured by a light squeeze of his hand. They spent the rest of ride being silent together.

Upon the arrival at 221b, Mrs. Hudson ran out of the building to greet the two. They hardly had the chance to step out of the car before being assaulted by her hugs and worried words.

"The two of you are going to give me a heart attack one of these days. You have no business messing around in something so dangerous."

"It all turned out okay, Mrs. Hudson," John laughed.

"I may just be your landlady but that doesn't mean I don't care."

"We know," Sherlock said, hoping to console her. "But we're all right and home."

"Oh, Sherlock, look at that shirt! That's the second suit this week you've ruined."

"Don't remind me," he groaned. "I'll need to buy a new one. However, it would be nice if we could go up to our flat."

"Of course, dears. You boys go and get your rest."

She ushered them into the building and let them go up to their flat. It felt like a long time since he'd been in his home and it had been even longer for John. Once they were inside with the door closed a sense of relief settled over them. It was all over and they were safe. John looked at Sherlock and smiled, just pleased to be somewhere where he could relax.

"How does boring look right about now?" John asked.

"For the time being, it looks decent."

The two collapsed on the couch, John with his laptop and Sherlock with a good book. They kept eyeing one another when they thought the other wasn't looking. Sherlock didn't know what John had been searching for in him but he just wanted to know what the doctor was thinking. He himself was still partially unsure if their relationship was right but his heart felt strongly about that man and it had to count for something.

The rest of their afternoon was spent as such, boring and relaxing. They ordered in for dinner and Sherlock finally got around to ordering flowers without John knowing. It was around ten when the two were brought to a silent consensus that it was time for bed. Sherlock looked to John, wanting to hold him, or kiss him, or bring him to bed with him but he knew to respect John's wishes.

"Well, goodnight, then," Sherlock said, almost sighing.

"Night, Sherlock," he yawned. "See you in the morning."

He watched him leave and lingered around the living room a few moments before going to his own room. It was later that night Sherlock lay in bed, thinking, unable to sleep. His chest was throbbing and it left him feeling uncomfortable. No, not uncomfortable because the pain didn't affect him much. He felt hollow. He rolled around, trying every position but sleep wouldn't come to him. He knew why but couldn't quite admit it to himself. He turned on his side to masochistically gaze at the empty space next to him. He hesitantly reached out to that space and stroked the sheets, hoping something solid would be there. When he realized what he was doing he pulled away and turned to face the wall. Emotions would not rule him. They couldn't. And yet…

Sherlock dropped the walls of his mind. He knew what he had to do because deep down he knew how he felt and John needed to know too. He cleared his thoughts to allow for instinct to control him. He almost leapt out of bed and followed his feet through the flat and up the stairs to the second bedroom. He paused at the threshold. The door was slightly cracked and he could hear the soft, strangled snores of the man on the other side. He pressed his hand flat on the door, absorbing the energy within, before pushing it open.

The room was quite bare, there were no indicators of his personality but the sheer lack of items could've been an indicator itself. John's bed was pushed against the wall so that the headboard touched it but no other side did. The sleeping doctor was curled up on the right side of the full bed, leaving the left open, just for him, as if John knew. He approached the bed slowly, his heart worried that if he made a misstep everything he knew would melt away.

At the bedside he hesitated. His brain was butting in to tell him to turn around but his heart was so close that it gave it strength to keep the reigns. He pulled back the covers and climbed in so easily. When he pulled the covers back over himself and could feel John's warmth next to him he knew that it was right. It was where he was supposed to be. He reached out to John who, even in his sleep, reacted to his touch. He pulled him close so that John's head rested on his chest and he could bury his face in his hair. Sherlock didn't even want to sleep anymore.

The doctor curled into him, draping an arm around Sherlock's waist to keep him in place. Sherlock wrapped his own arms around Johns shoulders to leave no space between them They'd been apart for far too long already. The simple scent of Johns shampoo filled him with such elation that he had to smile. He rested his cheek on the top of his head, drowning himself in the intoxicant until sleep stole his consciousness away.

The light of morning unwelcomingly assaulted Sherlock. He attempted to shift himself to avoid the sun but a weight on his chest prevented him from doing so. He glanced down to see John, still snoring, cocooning his body. He grinned as he affectionately brushed his fingers through the pile of dirty blond hair beneath his nose.

The sleeping man stirred, which was shown by the occasional anomaly in his snoring pattern and the shifting every few minutes. It looked like his own body was trying to lightly shake him awake. After a half an hour of absent-minded stroking, as though John were a cat lying over his heart, the doctor opened his eyes, his vision blurred by sleep. He prodded Sherlock's chest, as if he were wondering why his mattress felt so strange.

Finally, he decided to look up and almost ran out of bed when he saw a face looking back at him. He was calmed by the soft fingertips running through his hair and tracing his cheekbone. He reached up and touched Sherlock's hand, intertwining his fingers with the detective's. John pulled himself up onto his pillow so that he could see Sherlock eye-to-eye.

"Sherlock…" he whispered, resting his hand on Sherlock's cheek to make sure he was real and that he himself was awake.

"John, I'm sorry. I-," he was interrupted by a hand on his mouth.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"You took a bullet for me. That said enough."

"Would you just let me say it?" he whined, moving closer so that their foreheads were touching.

"Okay," John beamed.

"John, I love you. I want you to know that because we'll have to take this day to day. I won't always be like this, as much as I'd like to be. No matter what mood or mindset I'm in I need you to know that I love you and that won't change no matter what I say or do."

John looked hard at the man before him. "Sherlock Holmes, you're worth the work."

They stared at each other, reading one another's eyes, before they moved in for the kiss. Sherlock crashed against John like a wave, drinking him in, moving frantically, bordering on animalistic. He grabbed a fistful of the same hair he'd been stroking only minutes before and pulled him in until two became one. John fumbled with his shirt but Sherlock ripped it off before he had the chance to finish. He pulled off his own shirt and immediately dragged John back to him. Bare chest on bare chest with two hearts beating in frenzied sync. Sherlock touched the scars on John's back with such tenderness and John caressed the bandages over the detective's shoulder. They pulled apart to look at each other, the love for one another so visible, when Sherlock spoke.

"I think… you're going to have to call out of work," he smirked, breathing heavily. "Something tells me you're going to be quite busy today."


End file.
